Passing By
I wonder
if by saying no words
I would be able to tell,
if by attempting nothing
I would be able to express,
and if by singing no song
I would be able to chant,
for I have not much to claim,
except a little indignation,
when passing by you,
so quietly and feebly
lying down there.
Why couldn’t you keep
going hard with yourself,
presenting your rage
at the world
and at us,
so that we would continue
to ignore you
and your talent,
which you cared not
to protect.
That’s what I said years ago,
siding myself with
all others, from whom
you set your eyes away.
I start to appreciate
only now
how fulfilling your sentiment
could be:
being angry at every one
and no one,
saying something
to a point
and no point[1].